Missing
by KCS
Summary: Story told in 221B drabbles with one-word prompts, cross-posted to new LiveJournal community. Non-slash. Now complete. 7/24/09 - Very sorry, accidentally posted a Memory chapter to this; this has NOT been updated. -facepalm-
1. Missing

One week. Seven days. No doubt Mr. Holmes could name how many hours and minutes, exactly, it had been since the Doctor had turned up – or rather had not turned up – missing.

It had been a vile night, with freezing rain and winds to match; that much Mr. Holmes had reiterated with painful clarity yesterday when the strain of four consecutive sleepless nights and refusal to eat more than a piece of toast had finally broken down the detective's stoicism – much to the Inspector's shock at the sight of the uncharacteristic outburst in the foyer of Scotland Yard.

In that unheard-of (and Lestrade hoped to _never_ see such a look on a man's face again) outburst, the detective had also let slip that he had been the cause of the Doctor's being out in such inclement conditions, due to a caustic, biting remark regarding his work on a case they were investigating.

Mr. Holmes already looked more ghost than man, Lestrade mused as the amateur paced the visitor's room of Watson's club in a relentless shadow, waiting for the doorman to talk to them about the night in question again.

They had better find the Doctor soon, the Inspector reflected uneasily; for it appeared that it was not one man's life, but _two_ men's lives, that now hung in the balance.


	2. Faint

It was after midnight when, finally convincing Mr. Holmes we would get no more from the doorman or anyone else who had seen the Doctor that night, we returned to the Yard. I managed to force two cups of tea down the man's throat, though I doubt he remembers drinking.

I've seen a lot in my career, stuff that either drives a man to continue a policeman's life or to leave the game for good, mad or close to it. But I never want to see Mr. Holmes in that state again.

Suspicions were not enough to get us anywhere; while I suspected the amateur had already torn the houses apart I was not about to prevent the man, if it would find the Doctor before it was too late.

But it had not. We had nothing to go on. That case Mr. Holmes had been working was stalled because of a far more important investigation; it was those criminals that we suspected of being responsible for the Doctor's disappearance.

The trouble was, it had been a week with no word one way or the other. Any experienced official will tell you that is never good.

I nearly fainted, and Mr. Holmes _did_, when an idiot of a constable popped into my office, hollering that we had finally found a body.


	3. Relief

Mr. Sherlock Holmes may be thin as a cricket wicket, but he weighs a sight more than I would have expected. I barely kept hold of him as he pitched forward, his face whiter than his collar, and apparently tried his best to crack his head open on my cabinet.

"Cummings, you idiot!" I snapped, hefting the limp amateur into my chair. I retrieved my pocket-flask and unscrewed the cap, as the constable blinked cow-eyed.

"What's wrong with him?"

"What in blazes do you think, Constable!" I knelt, forced a swallow of the brandy between Mr. Holmes's teeth, and received a weak sputter in response. "You just burst in here and informed us you'd found a corpse, you dolt!"

"But…ohhhh! But it's just some chap we fished out of the Thames, he had the Doctor's wallet in his pocket! I thought…" _Thought_, indeed. That boy would be lucky to _ever_ get his sergeant's stripes.

"Mr. Holmes, can you hear me?" I asked hesitantly, for though his eyes had flicked open at my voice I could not tell whether they were semi-conscious, or simply stunned from grief.

"Lestrade?" he asked faintly, but quite lucidly. "What…"

"It's not the Doctor, Mr. Holmes," I stated immediately, and saw some colour return to his face, his grip slowly loosening as he drew a shaky breath.

* * *

_I forgot to say in the last chapter that Police Constable Randall Cummings belongs to me (he is mentioned in a few of my fics, including_ With Friends Like These_). He and Alfie may be used with permission._


	4. Exhaustion

"That's what happens when you all but kill yourself, Mr. Holmes – you know as well as I that after two days without sleep you can start hallucinating, and you haven't been eating, either," I snapped testily. The young fool would be needing a doctor if he kept this up, and the only one he would permit near him was likely not going to be in condition to care for him.

I was pleased to see the beginnings of a sharp grey glare. Good.

"Cummings, where's the body?"

"The morgue, sir; I ran up to tell you."

"That's our first real lead in days," Mr. Holmes muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose with a perceptibly trembling hand.

"It'll take at least an hour for the formalities to be completed; these things must be done according to protocol." I coolly held up a restraining hand. "You'll be no good to anyone, least of all _him_, if you collapse before we find him," I added gently, and saw the blind anger seep from his face.

"Perhaps, for _once_, Inspector…you are correct," he agreed wearily, settling limply back without further struggle.

"Cummings, fetch a drink while I run down to the morgue, and then see that Mr. Holmes stays _in that chair_, preferably napping," I directed both in one stern glare. "I'll be back."


	5. Weary

It was over an hour before the autopsy was completed on the chap we'd dredged from the Thames, and ten more minutes before I'd gathered the evidence we might need and was returning to my office in that darkest hour just after midnight.

No doubt Mr. Holmes would want to see the body himself, and probably find a hundred or two things I and the police-surgeon had missed (and take great glee in the fact too, as usual), but this would do for starters. I opened my door, stifling a yawn behind the sheaf of papers I held, and hoped that the amateur could find a clue or connection in the whole mess.

P.C. Cummings was slouched in my desk chair, and scrambled up guiltily as I entered. I spared him no more than an eyeroll, having better things to talk of. But my words faded unspoken as I saw that Mr. Holmes had finally fallen asleep, his long legs sprawled half-under my desk, his chin upon his chest, and the room filled with his exhausted breathing.

"I thought it best to not wake him, Inspector," Cummings whispered.

"Good lad," I agreed thoughtfully. "Constable?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you suppose he'll murder us in the morning if we let him sleep a while longer?"

"Probably, sir. Shall I fetch him a blanket?"


	6. Clench

I rather enjoyed the detective's temper-fit, though Cummings's eyes were saucer-round. "If you think he's angry now, watch him when we find the Doctor. Don't let him out of your sight, unless you want to do the paperwork for a manslaughter."

Finally Mr. Holmes, more under control (by that meaning, not kicking any loose objects into the walls), motioned to me. "What else was in his pockets?"

"Not much," I replied. "Here. Coins, dirty handkerchief, an old newspaper."

"Do you know who he is?"

"Working on it," I replied immediately. "He's…" I fell silent, seeing that he was no longer listening, but was carefully picking up the Doctor's still-damp wallet.

Thin fingers suddenly clenched around it, and a dangerous gleam began to smolder in his eyes. He thrust the wallet into his inner pocket, spinning on his heel.

"I have someone who might be of more help than your identification department, Lestrade," he shouted over his shoulder. "Meet me at Baker Street in one hour!"

I massaged my temples as the door slammed.

"Inspector, he just took police evidence!"

Well-meaning lad, but inexperienced. "Did _you_ want to take it back from him, Constable?"

"Err…no, sir."

"Then shut up. And send a wire to Baker Street. Ask Mrs. Hudson if she might be so kind as to make us an early breakfast."


	7. Determination

As a clock somewhere tolled one, he raised his head and listened for signs of aberrance in the routine of this place. Hearing nothing, he managed to struggle to a kneeling position on the hard cot, repressing a shiver that would have made the bed creak loudly.

His captors had not been inhumane compared to his expectations. Having his hands manacled together and chained to an iron bedstead would not be his position of choice, but it was better than not being able to recline at all. He had been fed, once a day; the worst thing was he had caught a bad cold from never changing out of his wet clothing seven days before.

But the fever and coughing were the least of his worries. He had tried to escape for days now, accomplishing nothing but draw attention to himself and slice his wrists painfully raw in the handcuffs. This was his last chance.

Holmes always joked with him about his army-born habit of keeping a handkerchief in his sleeve. His captors had not been prudent enough to check and see if he kept anything _else_ with that handkerchief.

As he maneuvered the sliver of metal from his cuff yet again, he wondered absently how long it would be before Holmes discovered his smallest lock-pick was missing from his burglary-kit.


	8. Failure

If – he was beginning to think hypothetically, not positively – _if_ he ever got out of this, he was going to have to have the detective give him some lessons in lock-picking.

He stifled a hoarse cough in the pillow before settling back onto his knees, wearily scratching at the small key-hole again, his sleep-deprived mind wandering.

To be abducted from the streets was absurd enough, and to be used against Sherlock Holmes nothing new – but to be taken on a whim, a spur-of-the-moment idea, was no less than _galling_.

The leader had freely admitted, in some bizarre sense of fair-play, that he'd abducted him merely to send Mr. Sherlock Holmes on a string of red herrings all about London, so the gang could pack up their operation and move it without interference.

He had been taken merely because he was out alone on a dark night, they needed to get Holmes off the scent for a week or two, and because one of their own men had been shot in a police encounter and needed a physician.

His lips curled in a half-smirk, thinking of what a melodrama the thing would make for the _Strand_ once he got free.

And then the smile faded, as the lock-pick slipped suddenly from the keyhole and clattered between the rails to the floor below.


	9. Work

When we arrived, Mrs. Hudson (bless her soul) had lit the fires; we felt the warmth soon as we entered. She bustled about, taking dripping outerwear, and informed me that she already had breakfast on the table, more to follow if we wished, and could I please forgive the mess Mr. Holmes had made since he returned twenty minutes ago.

Cummings gawped, stumbling after me up the stairs, as the good lady hurried back toward the kitchen. I laughed at the lad's dumbfounded expression; that this was his first time in this house of horrors.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but…how does a lady like that stand a lodger like Mr. Holmes?"

"If you can solve that mystery, my boy, you're a deal smarter than you look."

"Er…thank you, Inspector."

The floor was chock-full of debris, since the Doctor hadn't been around to clean, and Mr. Holmes was pacing the floor with a sheaf of papers, flinging each over his shoulder as he finished perusing its contents.

I yawned and seated myself at the table, while Cummings did a remarkable impression of a pond goldfish before stammering a good-morning (which was ignored) and sitting beside me.

"Sir?" he whispered.

"Good news, Constable." I indicated the table with some relief, for it held the remains of a goodly plate of eggs and bacon.


	10. Shiver

That his hands were shaking, had been for hours from a severe attack of chills as the temperature dropped in the draughty room, was no excuse for such clumsiness. The chain confining his wrists to the bedstead measured only six inches, and the lock-pick had fallen far from the bed.

Spent and shivering, he slumped downward onto the thin pillow, arms above his head, wincing as the restraints chafed at already-raw skin.

Ever since Holmes had mentioned casually that he always carried a razor-blade hidden in his cuff, he had out of pure whim decided to carry a lock-pick around with him, thinking that between that and Holmes's tools, they should be able to get out of anything.

Holmes _would_ have gotten free by now, he reflected miserably. Actually, he never would have stupidly got himself captured in the first place.

To make things worse, the last words he had had with his friend had been rude and unthinking.

He curled up miserably into as tight a ball as possible to conserve heat, and hoped desperately that the young man (who had obviously gotten in over his head in this gang's mess) he'd treated a week ago for an infection from a nearly-healed bullet-wound had succeeded in his promise – to see that his wallet got to Holmes or the closest bobby.


	11. Effort

Mr. Holmes suddenly hurled the rest of his paperwork toward the Doctor's desk and pounced on the coffee-pot.

Judging from the gleam in his eyes, I doubted he needed the drink, but who was I to question the man? Only the Doctor was brave enough to try that particular suicide-attempt.

"Lestrade, do hurry; I must see the missing-person records for the last week," the amateur growled snappishly round his cup, beckoning royally with his hand. Insufferable fellow.

"Why missing persons?" Cummings asked timidly.

"The young man in the morgue was healing from a bullet-wound, though drowning was the cause of death, according to your report," Mr. Holmes replied. "I am of the theory that he was a member of this gang, as no mere pickpocket would be recovering from that sort of wound. Either his drowning was an accident – a monstrous coincidence – or else he was murdered. Watson's wallet in his pocket was either left as a warning, or they did not check his pockets." He paused to inhale the remainder of his coffee. "I've given Shinwell Johnson his description, but it would expedite things if I had a name to attach to it. Now do hurry!"

Before I could ask who the devil this Johnson fellow was, Mr. Holmes had hopped over the nearest chair and darted into his bedroom.


	12. Battle

As a soldier, he had learnt to sleep anywhere, but illness and discomfort prevented more than a light doze, out of which he started fitfully when the door-lock rattled, signifying his last chance for escaping.

He had refused, for it could do no good but rather harm to his morale, to dwell on the fact that the gang had nearly finished their moving preparations and were scheduled to leave this very morning. Their leader had taken a deal of ridiculous pleasure in detailing to him just what they were going to do with – or to – him before they left, so that when Holmes found him he would be too busy looking after him for pursuit.

_If_ Holmes _did_ find him, he had finished the thought in his head rather than giving the man the satisfaction of reacting. Not that he doubted his friend's willingness to destroy heaven and earth and hell too, if necessary, to find him – but they were simply running out of time.

He stifled a weak cough and drew breath hoarsely, giving the semblance of deep sleep. If he feigned ill unconsciousness, his jailor might draw near enough to be grabbed, kicked unconscious, and searched for a gun with which to blow apart the handcuffs.

Either way, he was certainly not going to go down without a battle.


	13. Rescue

Mr. Holmes had gone through an entire week's worth on missing-person reports in less than an hour (Cummings was finding paper in all cracks of the room for weeks afterwards), and still hadn't come to a conclusion of who the drowned chap was.

My questioning about his mysterious informant only produced a growl and a muttered explanation about 'the man's safety, shut up Lestrade, I'm thinking Lestrade even though that concept is foreign to you Lestrade,' etc.

I would've thought he was making the whole thing up, another instance of his mind trying to skirt the edge of insanity close as he could get without the Doctor to pull him back, but for the fact that before we finished discussing the murder victim a street urchin was banging urgently on my window.

Mr. Holmes darted out of the room like a jackrabbit from a hunting dog, leaving us (and half the Yard) to stare at the dust settling in his wake. Within five minutes he was back.

"We've got the man's address…" he gasped. "Johnson…found him even without the name…and ought to, for what I paid him…won't be going to concerts for three months…"

"I'll start a warrant immediately, Inspector," Cummings interjected helpfully.

I glanced back and saw that Mr. Holmes had vanished. Good Lord, I had a migraine.

"Don't bother."


	14. Breathe

"But sir –"

"Shut up, Cummings."

"But –"

"Just do it."

"But we don't have a warrant, Inspector!"

"I know."

"But sir, how can we allow him to just break into that chap's home, even if he is dead?"

"Constable, in this business you must choose your battles. And believe me from experience, crossing Mr. Holmes is _not_ one of the important ones. You shoot straight with him and look the other way occasionally, he lets you pocket the credit for the case, and honestly tries to help while being a royal pain in the…well, you get my drift. You know the Doctor, don't you, Cummings?"

"Yes, sir. He's a good man."

"They don't come any better. And have you ever seen what happens if someone even looks cross-eyed at him in Mr. Holmes's presence?"

"Err…no, sir."

"Let's hope you won't have to."

"But still, he's breaking and entering –"

"We don't know _what_ he's doing, Constable. And I'm not going to ask any embarrassing questions."

"You'll have to if he isn't _done_ when we get there."

"If he's not, we'll go to the nearest pub for a drink."

As it happened, we didn't; he met us at the corner, bellowed at the driver, swung himself into the cab, and squeezed his bony person between us.

"We have them," he breathed.


	15. Drug

Footsteps, distant sounds of scurrying feet and boxes being shifted. They were hurrying. Why?

"He doesn't look too good, does 'e?" His primary jailor, the one he had almost – had been so close! – lured near enough two days ago. "Think I hit 'im too hard yesterday?"

"Meh, at this point nobody cares," the other returned – an unfamiliar voice, but the gang had several members he knew nothing about.

Two of them. That made the odds about even, then.

"Just give the stuff to 'im. Boss said to hurry it up. He thinks Holmes got wise to the lad we dumped in the river; the man's been out of 'is flat all morning and nobody knows where 'e went."

Holmes? A man in the river?

Wait. They were going to _drug_ him.

He slitted one eye open just in time to see a syringe coming at his neck. Unable to form a more strategic plan, he gritted his teeth against the pain and jerked his knees up and around, straight into the man's stomach; then kicked more out of blind instinct than real aim. The syringe clattered to the floor accompanied by a satisfying howl of pain as the man doubled over, clutching his stomach.

He peripherally saw the other man's upraised gun-butt, but not in time to block the falling blow.


	16. Desperation

He was dazed, but not out, from the blow, though he could count his pulse rate in the throbbing of his head. Despite his desperation to remain conscious, he missed a golden opportunity for continuing the fight, due to a sudden wave of dizziness.

Hiswrists were released from the bed, but not the handcuffs. He was hauled unceremoniously to his very wobbly feet and gripped by his bad shoulder and arm with enough pressure that he knew not to move if he did not want to continue the spiral into unconsciousness from the pain.

Outside he heard shouting, and a door slammed; Holmes must indeed have them panicking. Good man. Though he doubted he would be in time now.

The leader here had said he did not want him killed, because Holmes would immediately come after them with a vengeance; rather, just badly enough injured that his friend did not dare leave him until he knew if he would live. Sadistic indeed, but an unfortunately accurate assessment of them.

Once his knees had turned from water back to flesh and blood, the room suddenly righted itself, and he perceived the hazy figure of his jailor coming at him with that syringe again.

He wagered that the fellow's wrist had never been on the receiving end of a rugby drop-kick before.


	17. Shoot

"Mr. Holmes, turning a blind eye is one thing, but I can't just watch you break in there," I sighed, watching Cummings and the cab rattling away after reinforcements. The warehouse – if the crumbling old den could be termed that – was obviously still inhabited; from our vantage point we saw people scrambling about, obviously in a dreadful hurry.

"Then suppose you just stand here and wait to hear a _gunshot_, Lestrade – then you can enter without fear of jeopardizing your career. After all, it is only a man's life!" he snapped, eyes flashing.

"Don't vent your frustration with yourself on _me_, Mr. Holmes!" I matched his glare, spark for spark, until to my surprise his face crumpled and he rubbed his eyes.

"That was uncalled-for, of course. My apologies," he muttered, as if either too weary to speak or else completely unaccustomed to apologising. I suspected the latter.

I opened my mouth to reassure him, but a sudden burst of muffled gunfire broke the chill morning air, draining his face of color and replacing it with unspeakable terrified fury.

I yanked my revolver from my hip-pocket as we as one bolted for the warehouse, hoping that murder had not been done and that I would not have to prevent him from committing another.

"Hang on, Doctor," I whispered under my breath.


	18. Fall

Defying his captors was in retrospect not the best course of action; though he had no choice in the matter – it was a matter of survival.

The force of his kick had thrown him off-balance, and aided by a sharp shove from the man holding him he collapsed into an awkward heap, unable to break the fall due to his manacled hands.

As if Luck decided suddenly to aid the enemy, the expulsion of air from his lungs was followed immediately by a horrible coughing that set his throat afire and his head to match. He barely saw the raised pistol.

Instinct screamed. He rolled just as the shot was fired, coming up into an awkward defensive crouch, and in a last desperate attempt tackled the gunman around the knees.

They crashed together to the floor. The gun fired somewhere away from them, deafening them both, and he lost no time in taking advantage of the surprise by bringing his clasped fists up under the thug's chin, knocking him senseless and leaving himself collapsed, gasping and straining for razor-sharp air.

He heard panicked shouting…pounding footsteps…authoritative bellowing…an order to "leave him, swing for it!"

His trembling hand closed around steel and he swiveled to one knee in classic firing position. "I don't think so, gentlemen!"

"Hullo, Doctor," Inspector Lestrade chuckled in bemusement.


	19. Limp

I've seen that sort of desperation a few times; usually in the eyes of those men that you don't dare turn your back on, even if they're restrained. The look of a man who knows he's about to die, and so has nothing to lose by dangerous attempts to stave off the Reaper by any possibility.

I was just glad the man could look at me, period.

"Doctor, if you'll pardon me, you might want to put the gun down," I said gently; for though I did not doubt his control, his hands – they'd handcuffed him! – and the pistol they held were shaking visibly.

To my surprise he staggered unsteadily to his feet, lowering the weapon, and I got a better look at him. The death-light faded from his eyes, leaving them glittering dazedly with what probably was a fever, if his flushed face was any indication. Dried and fresh blood adorned his shirt-cuffs, and an angry bruise was spreading on his forehead – but I could see no signs of other wounds.

Thank heaven. Mr. Holmes was uncontrollable enough as it was.

I winced as a terrified yelp sounded outside, followed by a metallic crash and a shower of falling packing-cases.

"Yes, he's right behind me," I told the Doctor dryly, and received a faint smile before his knees suddenly buckled.


	20. Emotion

"It's all right, Doctor," I murmured quietly, as he shivered and placed his free hand on the wall while I braced his shoulders. "We've got them all – there, that whistle; that's Cummings, back with reinforcements."

He nodded, coughing harshly. That did not sound good.

"I'm…all right," he rasped in defiance of my opinion, nodding gratefully at me as he caught his breath, resting his head against cold stone.

Brief scuffling sounded outside, along with a vehement burst of curses Mr. Holmes had to have picked up in his work with sailors at the dockyards. The Doctor gave a queer kind of sobbing laugh when he heard it, and his eyes flicked over to the door just as a hulking bruiser came crashing through it, headfirst, and sprawled with a moan upon the floor.

I raised an eyebrow as the detective stormed in after him, sporting a blackening eye and a scowl that was even blacker, and obviously considered aiming a very dirty kick at the unconscious thug. I was about to protest this, but the Doctor saved me from having to reason with a madman.

"Holmes, that's enough."

I would have sworn in court that when he saw us – or rather the Doctor – that his eyes suddenly glinted with tears of relief (were the very idea not so much absolute bunk).


	21. Vicious

The blind rage faded from Mr. Holmes's eyes as he saw the Doctor standing, and the men he'd taken out before I'd stumbled in. A slit of a grin cracked his thin face. The Doctor smiled back, then suddenly began coughing harshly; I winced just thinking about how painful it sounded. Mr. Holmes's face darkened.

Then he saw the hard cot in the corner and the chain attached, trailing on the flat pillow.

I'd no time for more than wondering if I was physically capable of preventing murder if it came down to it, before there was a sudden stealthy movement behind him. The Doctor's head snapped up, and with a jangling of handcuffs brought the gun he still held up to point it at a new threat. "Drop it!"

The groggy fellow scowled but let the knife clatter to the floor. I gently took the pistol from the Doctor, who sighed and held out his wrists to me.

I tried my hand-cuff key on the lock, trying to ignore Mr. Holmes (who had slammed the dazed thug against the wall, one fist knotted in the man's collar, and was demanding to know _exactly what they'd done_ to the Doctor).

And that was the scene my constable found when he blundered in moments later. I've never seen the lad so bug-eyed.


	22. Support

The key didn't fit the derbies, and unlike _some_ people I could mention _I_ have had considerably more important skills to learn in my life than picking locks with every hair-pin and ice-pick available. After reassuringly patting the Doctor's shoulder, I walked over to Cummings, who was eyeing Mr. Holmes with eyes as wide as meat-platters.

"Inspector –"

"Don't ask," I sighed, glancing around at the mess. Oh, lovely. "What kept you?"

"Magistrate's signature. We're loading the gang into wagons now."

A growling detective and a small yelp turned my attention back to the fiasco at hand. "You were going to WHAT?" the amateur snarled. I blinked as the petrified thug's toes left the ground momentarily, and Cummings squirmed uneasily.

"Inspector, hadn't we better –"

"Yes, Cummings, but there's a way to go about these things without getting one's self on the receiving end of that man's temper, believe me. Observe and learn, Constable. Mr. Holmes!" I barked sharply, seeing the Doctor suddenly sway unsteadily on his feet, reaching out with his shackled hands for the wall.

The amateur paused, glared demonically at me. I merely slid my glance over to the Doctor, and he followed it.

Cummings jumped when the would-be murderer was roughly tossed at our feet, as Mr. Holmes sprang across the room to catch his collapsing biographer.


	23. Sick

Adrenaline seeping away like a melting shadow added to his exhaustion and relief made the floor a very appealing prospect, though pitching headfirst for it was not ideal. He had landed against something softer than the stone, but was not about to complain. By the time the world stopped whirling and settled, he was lying on his back, blinking up at the worried face of Sherlock Holmes.

Disoriented, he attempted to struggle up, only to be pushed firmly back against the thin pillow beneath his head. Wait, since when could Holmes keep him down with only one hand? He never used to be that strong…

"It's all right, Watson," he was saying fuzzily somewhere. "Lie still now, my dear fellow. It's over."

Was it? A cold hand was examining what was probably a livid bruise upon his cranium; despite the pain the coolness was wonderful. Why then the exclamation of alarm over his head?

"Cummings." Lestrade's voice. "Call a doctor to meet them at Baker Street. _Now_."

He blinked and Holmes came into focus again, his eyes lost and warm with concern; obviously needing reassurance. "I'm so glad to see you," the Doctor whispered tiredly.

"And I you, my dear Watson," he replied, his voice uncharacteristically unsteady. "I did not think I would get the opportunity to…apologise for my atrocious behaviour."


	24. Forgiveness

He blinked in confusion, and started to grip Holmes's arm to ask what in heaven's name he was talking about – only to be pulled up short by the horrid jangling of steel upon his abused wrists.

"Stop," Holmes ordered gently as he took his hands and laid them back upon his chest. "I have to get them off you and I don't have my smaller tools with me."

"Erm…is this one of them, sir?"

The constable…what was his name?...had found the strip of metal beside the cot while yanking the thin blanket off it. He quickly brought both items over to the detective, who snatched the former with a growled word of thanks.

"What exactly were you doing with this?" Holmes asked, quirking an eyebrow. "Constable, would you like to learn how to open a pair of spring-release handcuffs, or shall you continue to stand there looking awkward?"

Watson smiled faintly as the young man blushed and hastily busied himself tucking the blanket round the Doctor's legs. "Trying to escape, Holmes. Not as good as you are with it, obviously," he murmured, turning his head away as a hoarse cough escaped after the words.

Holmes gave a small snort and settled on his knees and inspected the handcuff-lock, his thin lips tightening dangerously at the sight of the abused skin beneath.


	25. Grasp

He'd closed his eyes to block the pain as Holmes worked angrily on the hand-cuffs, and when he opened them again it was to a cold hand on his forehead, startling him.

"Easy, Watson," the familiar voice soothed immediately, removing the hand as he gasped. "It's all right, they're off. You do not appear to have a concussion from what I know of the symptoms, but I'm not sure you should walk. I shall bow to your medical opinion on that."

"I can manage," he replied immediately. A wiry arm stole round his back to help in the sitting process, and between them with Lestrade's help he managed to make his feet.

Holmes pulled Watson's right arm around his own shoulders so that he could lean upon him, but paused when his friend grimaced, his hand clenching a handful of jacket as he shivered.

"All right, old fellow?"

"Not used…to moving my arms," the Doctor gasped, gingerly flexing. "Been in those…_things_…for 'most a week. Don't grind your teeth like that, Holmes, you'll give yourself a headache."

Lestrade smothered a laugh, not wishing to award himself the attention of exhausted-and-worried-and-homicidal Sherlock Holmes. Besides, despite Watson's levity, the Inspector did not much like the occasional grimaces when he moved a certain way, his hoarse breathing, or the way his eyes glittered feverishly bright.


	26. Weak

The poor Doctor gave it a game try, but it just wasn't within his power to make it all the way out into the cab. He collapsed before we'd gone fifty yards, shaking like a leaf in an autumn-wind and barely able to gasp an embarrassed apology as we settled him gently upon the floor.

"I am so sorry…" he murmured weakly to Mr. Holmes, who only looked more lost than before. "I suppose…I can't do this after all…"

"And you were dashed foolish to try in the first place," I retorted without thinking, earning myself a glare from the detective which I returned with equal heat.

When I'd helped the Doctor up the first time, I could tell he'd lost weight; definitely malnourished if not dehydrated from fever and mistreatment. And he was out of breath – _too_ out of breath, gasping hoarsely as he slumped backward, eyes closed, against Mr. Holmes.

Knowing the detective as I did, I half-expected him to squawk in outrage and move the man to a position on the floor. But he didn't; he actually sat there and held his friend, awkwardly patting his arm occasionally as I left to find Cummings.

Had someone depicted that situation to me about Mr. Sherlock Holmes when we first met ten years ago, I should have laughed beyond belief.


	27. Time

I nearly bowled Cummings over running out to the front, where he'd evidently done quite a passable job of overseeing the arrests in the absence of a superiour officer (the lad may make Sergeant yet), causing him to yelp and snap to attention as I bumped into him.

"At ease, Constable, for heaven's sake," I sighed, brushing myself off. "Is there a doctor on the way to Baker Street?"

"Yes, sir," he answered promptly, "and I sent a message to the landlady."

"Good man. Now come with me; we have get the Doctor out of there."

"What's the rush, Inspector?" he panted as I hurried back to where we'd left the amateurs.

"Because if we don't get back there, Mr. Holmes is liable to try carrying the Doctor himself, the bloody idiot," I snapped. "You wouldn't think by looking at him, Constable, but the man's a sight stronger than he appears."

"Not in the condition he's in, Inspector," Cummings observed softly. "I've never seen him look this bad before."

"The Doctor's never been missing this long before, Constable. Just be grateful they're both alive, this time. Let's hope there will never be a next time." I felt my jaw clench despite the fact that the insufferable amateur had made it his specialty to drive me to insanity on a regular basis.


	28. Anger

When we got back to where I'd left them, the Doctor was asleep (or unconscious, but I hoped the former), and Mr. Holmes looked to be nodding himself over the Doctor's head.

He looked up as we entered, blinked twice; then apparently realizing he had forgotten to keep up that patently false pretense of energy, he forced a smile onto his face and began to carefully maneuver the Doctor's head off his arm.

I shook my head, knowing voicing my thoughts would only receive a firm and biting denial, and took the Doctor's legs. We reached the cab with no difficulty, and I had Cummings remain behind to deal with reporters and fill out preliminary paperwork; good practice for him.

By the time we reached Baker Street, I was secretly eyeing Mr. Holmes in case he was stupid enough to keep up at this rate.

Thankfully, the physician Cummings had summoned was of the same opinion as I, and banished the detective for a change of clothes, saying he could return once he'd eaten and shaved, and bring something light for the Doctor as well.

Mr. Holmes swore up a storm and kicked the banister on his way down (to my and his good landlady's amusement), shot me a curt word of thanks, and vanished with a huff into his bedroom.


	29. Struggle

Mr. Holmes was still destroying his bedroom in search of a clean collar when the physician came out. He cast a dubious glance at the pounding from below before asking who I was and warning me not to question the Doctor until he was feeling better – which would not be for a while.

Unfortunately, Mr. Holmes chose that exact moment to appear on the stairs, demanding to know what exactly the poor medico meant by that.

"I mean that he's injured, half-starved, dehydrated, and contracted one of the nastiest chills I've seen in weeks," the man snapped defensively.

Mr. Holmes blanched, and the physician lowered his voice when he saw the detective wasn't going to attack him. "That fever is not dangerously high, but enough that he will be quite miserable. He should know what medicines to take and so on but will need your help in fetching supplies; he should remain in bed until his body has recovered."

The amateur nodded, slightly more calmly, but I looked at the doctor. "You said _injured_," I repeated pointedly. "The head?"

"That, and he appears to have been in a nasty scuffle, though the bruises are several days old," he reported calmly. "That is part of the reason he was having trouble breathing as you said, Inspector; his ribs were fairly badly bruised."


	30. Trust

He could hear voices outside; the calm, reassuring tones of the physician, Holmes's high-pitched exclamations, and Lestrade's atypically patient remonstrances, all jumbled together.

He'd woken up to a strange man hovering over him, but was immediately set to rest with the fellow's professional (and thankfully quick) manner. Within ten minutes the physician had finished, to his relief, and with a knowing smile and a word of precautionary instruction (he appreciated not being insulted by a list of treatments that he already was well aware of) left the room.

He shivered and curled up on his less painful side under the blankets with his bandaged head resting upon his (also bandaged) wrist, very glad indeed to have the cozy warmth; he had begun to think he should never ever get warm again, much less warm _and_ comfortable.

So comfortable, in fact, was this limp feeling of complete safety that he did not immediately open his eyes when the door creaked and light footsteps moved softly beside him. A chair scooting. Silence. A cold hand gently examining the bandage, brushing the hair out of the way to check that the physician had done his job properly.

He smiled, pitying the poor doctor who had come up against a distraught Sherlock Holmes, and opened his eyes to see his friend sitting beside the bed.


	31. Whisper

He blinked for a moment before Holmes settled back, his hands clasped nervously. "How are you feeling?"

"Very tired," he whispered, swallowing on the cough that rose.

"Is there anything you need before you get some sleep?" Holmes inquired, his voice soft. "The physician said you'd been hurt."

"Well, I didn't go down without a fight, if that's what you mean," he murmured drowsily.

Holmes chuckled, an airy, relieved sound. He had not meant it as humorous, but if it would erase the worry lines from Holmes's eyes, then all the better.

"But one thing," he whispered suddenly, forcing his eyes back open to meet Holmes's, which had never left him.

"Yes, dear chap?"

"I'm…sorry." Holmes frowned, and he hurried on, feeling heat unrelated to the fever (indeed he was still shivering) spread over his face. "I was afraid those things I said…would be the last you remembered of me."

He'd no idea what he'd said that would cause the detective to lower his eyes, blinking dark, shivering lashes with abnormal rapidity, but it was a full minute before Holmes rose and pulled another blanket from his wardrobe, spreading it over him.

"No, my dear Watson," he heard finally, just before he fell asleep with Holmes's hand on his shoulder. "The last I would have remembered would be my own boorishness."


	32. Touch

The feel of damp cold on his forehead was what finally banished the disturbing dream, and despite the abrupt awakening he was grateful. For one terrifying moment he was afraid it had _all _been a dream, that he was still a prisoner – but then he successfully moved his arm and remembered the truth.

The gas was low, and the sun setting; orange light glowed at the edges of the curtains. A hand caught his as it shifted, and he blinked into focus the same face that had hovered protectively round the edges of his fever-dreams for the last few hours.

"Easy, Watson," Holmes said quietly, tucking in the twisted blankets. "Your fever's up again. How do you feel otherwise?"

He blinked, thinking about it. "A little thirsty," he admitted, vaguely remembering being given sips of water but not certain if that had been reality. He turned his head as the familiar coughing rose in his throat, and then slumped miserably back to the pillows (magically stacked up behind him) after the fit had passed, trying to catch his breath.

"You need to eat something as well, if you feel able," Holmes said earnestly, handing him a cup half-filled with lukewarm tea.

He sipped it gratefully and nodded. "I'd like that."

He could have laughed as his obviously worried friend fairly beamed.


	33. Nightmare

Mrs. Hudson was fussing in her usual manner later that evening. He smiled patiently, endured the scolding, complimented the soup, and glared at Sherlock Holmes when the man sniggered openly behind the good woman's back.

The effort drained him, however, and when the door had shut he sighed, rubbing his aching head.

"Shall I fetch you a pain reliever?" Holmes asked anxiously.

He shook his head. "Not yet. Thank you, m'dear fellow," he added as Holmes took the nearly-empty soup-plate. "Better not try more than that for now." Looking up as the detective helped him to recline, he frowned. "You need sleep, Holmes."

"I slept this morning," the detective admitted, shaking the thermometer. "You were out so completely that I took Mrs. Hudson's offer to watch you for a few hours. She woke me when you started…growing restless."

_Nightmaring_ was more like it, but he was grateful his friend had not said it. He was too spent to protest the temperature-taking, but halted Holmes with an upraised hand.

"You must tell me how you found me," he insisted, with a tired spark of eagerness.

"I shall, but only if you feel up to it," Holmes replied dubiously, handing him the thermometer.

"I do," he garbled round the glass.

Holmes's brows knitted. "Very well, but stop me if you start feeling badly."


	34. Grief

"And we found your wallet on this man they fished out of the Thames –" Holmes broke off suddenly as he gasped. "What's the matter?"

"What did he look like?"

"Young, tallish, blonde, blue eyes…what's wrong, Watson?"

"They had me treat him for an infection, Holmes," he answered softly. "Left me alone with him…I convinced him to run from the gang once he could. He promised to tell the police or you where I was."

Holmes winced, wishing he had known this before he began.

"They killed him, because he was helping me," Watson whispered, closing his eyes for a moment. When they opened again, Holmes cringed to see them dim with grief-stricken tears.

Holmes grasped his friend's shoulder. "More likely they realized he was not an asset and were going to execute him anyway; had they killed him for aiding you, they would not have left your wallet in his pocket. You cannot blame yourself."

He was only half-convinced, but his head hurt too badly to argue with Holmes; he did not realize just _how_ badly until he began coughing again. The room started spinning quite sickeningly, growing stiflingly warm.

"I'm sorry," he heard Holmes's anguished voice somewhere as he put a shaking hand to his head, trying to still the swaying ceiling. "This should have waited…blast you, Watson, _breathe_!"


	35. Fire

Holmes's raised voice hurt his head; he _was_ breathing, it was just _hard_ to without coughing, which burned his ribs.

"Stop…shouting," he managed to croak crossly between gasps, massaging the bandage around his head with a moan.

"Sorry," Holmes's voice instantly dropped to a quaking whisper. "I'm sorry, Watson, I thought…Watson…"

His hand was pulled away, a cold – _very_ cold – one replacing it. So welcome was the sensation (the room was unbearably hot) that he sighed, closing his eyes and turning his head toward it. But unfortunately the relief only lasted momentarily, for it left nearly as soon as it had come, accompanied by a low exclamation of alarm.

"Watson."

"Mmm?" He blinked hazily, trying to suppress another cough and only serving to make his head pulsate.

"I'm going to fetch that doctor – your fever's rising and I don't know why."

"It's called…a weakened immune system," he muttered with a faintly quirked smile that did not have the desired effect on Holmes's pale face. "Nothing…to worry about. 'S just a cold. And a headache," he added as an afterthought.

"You'll forgive me if I am not willing to gamble that your diagnosis is correct," Holmes replied, pulling down the smothering blankets and shouting for Mrs. Hudson before returning to dampen the washrag in cold water and place it on his brow.


	36. Late Nights

He had fallen asleep just after Holmes squeezed his shoulder gently and then bolted from the room, leaving Mrs. Hudson to play nurse, and so remained blissfully ignorant of the tense drama that unfolded in his bedroom in the long hours of that night.

Head trauma and fevers did not go well together, so he knew, but he had hardly thought it necessary to point the fact out. It was not that bad; he had certainly had worse. Yes, he was incredibly weak – weaker than he had let on to Holmes, naturally – from malnutrition, and in rather a lot of pain, but that was no reason to have in a physician. Holmes was worrying himself too much already, but he unfortunately no longer had the strength to protest against his friend's dashing about in a rainstorm after a police physician. He was too tired, and his head hurt. Quite a lot, actually…and the atmosphere of the room was growing warmer every minute, except for the small moments where the temperature would plummet and leave him coughing and shivering under the blankets…

He did not realise until his eyes flickered open two days later to see an even paler and more shaken Sherlock Holmes huddled in the chair beside his bed, eyes shadowed and face care-worn, exactly how bad it had been.


	37. Crisis

He felt tired, safe, warm, and comfortable all at once; a welcome feeling after half-imagined nightmares of being helplessly chained to a cot in a dank room, shivering and alone…of cold combined with heat to produce the most unpleasant of opposites…of voices over his head, unintelligible, invisible. He had thought they would never stop, and was quite happy to find they had been just that – dreams, nothing more. He was in his own bed, his headache reduced to a dull throbbing, no longer straining for air that stung like splinters being driven into his lungs.

He gave a tiny yawn of contentment and sighed, wriggling under the blankets to a more comfortable position, thus drawing the startled attention of the half-dozing consultant in the bedside chair. He blinked as Holmes rubbed eyes that were so shadowed it looked as if he had been in a street-brawl (and lost badly) and offered him the weariest of smiles.

"I am very glad to see you, old chap," Holmes said quietly.

He frowned, perplexed.

"And I swear before heaven, Watson, if you ever frighten me like that again I might just kill you myself," the detective whispered.

He was still not quite sure what exactly had happened, but _somewhere_ there had to be a gap in that chain of logic, he puzzled in bewilderment.


	38. Gallant

Being reassured by Holmes's presence, he fell asleep again immediately and did not awaken until Mrs. Hudson entered with what smelled like chamomile tea and buttered toast, if his senses did not deceive. He had expected to see the good lady at some point, vaguely remembering her hovering worriedly somewhere before Holmes had returned with that physician.

What he had _not_ expected to see, was that Holmes had apparently decided (or probably had gallantly fought but lost the battle) to collapse half-across his bed, half-curled in the chair, snoring softly. He tried for a moment to figure out how to maneuver his arm out from under the detective's limp head without waking him, and finally decided against trying; he looked so very exhausted.

"Should be, too, considering the fright you gave us all, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson scolded softly as she set down the tray.

He smiled down fondly at his unconscious friend. "I do apologise, Mrs. Hudson."

"Tut, 'twas not your fault, Doctor," the good lady replied, patting his shoulder (stepping carefully around Holmes's long legs). "Let me help you sit up a bit."

"Don't wake him," Watson whispered back, carefully raising himself and then settling back with a sigh as Mrs. Hudson plumped the pillows behind him.

"I shan't," she sniffed. "Anyway, he doesn't appreciate a good solid breakfast."


	39. Memory

At some point in the morning, Holmes yawned and woke with a start, bolting upright in disheveled confusion. Too exhausted to be embarrassed, he merely ignored his friend's chuckling and stalked down to his bedroom to promptly crash into his own bed, where he was soon asleep again.

So it was, that when Inspector Lestrade called that afternoon with P.C. Cummings in tow, he was pleasantly surprised to be shown into the Doctor's bedroom instead of the shared sitting room.

"Good to see you looking more yourself, Doctor," said he with sincerity, looking over the pale figure propped up in the bed. "Apparently you've been worrying quite a few people of late."

"So I hear." He motioned to the chair, glancing at the constable who remained standing. "You were there, when they found me," he stated, trying to remember his name.

"Yes, sir," the young man gulped. "Police Constable Randall Cummings, sir. And I'm glad to see you looking better, Doctor."

Watson voiced a greeting and thank-you before returning his attention to Lestrade. "Holmes is still sleeping, Inspector; is this a social visit, or are you here for my statement?"

"Only if you feel up to it, Doctor."

He nodded. "Most definitely. In fact I'd rather Holmes not be present when I do, so your timing for me is quite beneficial."


	40. Care

I'd been a bit puzzled about that last statement, but when he began to slowly detail the events of his abduction and imprisonment, I could see why he would rather Mr. Holmes not be present. The man would have been a holy terror if he'd heard everything, and the Doctor obviously knew that.

Though I was glad to get the formalities completed, after an hour of cross-examining I could see the Doctor's strength was flagging dramatically. He was pale as the bandage 'round his head and looking utterly exhausted; no doubt the effort of recollection was rather painful.

"I'm sorry, Doctor," I apologised, "nearly done now. Can I get you anything?"

"No," he whispered faintly, rubbing his eyes. "I'll be fine, Lestrade…pray continue."

I wrapped up as quickly as possible, conferring with Cummings to ensure we had all the evidence. "I think we're finished, Doctor," I reported at last.

He nodded, turning his head away as he coughed. "Good," he breathed in relief. "If that's all, gentlemen, then I believe I should get some rest."

That he was admitting it (and that he without a protest accepted my help settling him back down) showed his condition more clearly than Mr. Holmes's near-panicked franticness had done.

He was asleep before Cummings had turned down the gas and I'd pulled up the blanket.


	41. Storm

He awoke amid the pounding of a thunderstorm and the clock striking ten. How could he possibly have slept for fifteen straight hours? He stumbled into the sitting-room to sort through the post that had lain unheeded for the last ten days…nothing of interest. Finally he yawned, deciding to see if Mrs. Hudson could be prevailed upon for some coffee.

Someone had visited, for there were two distinct sets of boot-print traces (one with an inward twist) on the stairs. Lestrade and that constable, probably, come to interrogate Watson while he slept the day away. He scowled, about to descend after his coffee, when he heard his name being called softly from upstairs.

As he had thought Watson was asleep, and as it was highly unusual for the man to call for anything even if he truly needed aid, he took the steps two at a time and gently pushed the bedroom door open, hearing his name whispered once more.

He _was_ asleep, though obviously not peacefully – curled up shivering even under the blankets as the thunder rolled, one still-bandaged hand unconsciously clenched in the pillow, and distressedly murmuring.

He forgot all about the coffee, and probably could not have drunk it anyhow with his throat constricting in that peculiar manner, as he quietly sat upon the edge of the bed.


	42. Fear

He knew better than to startle his friend awake. But nor could he simply stand by and watch him suffer, especially when he had unconsciously begged for Holmes to rescue him from somewhere in that disturbed slumber-world.

Usually a hand upon his shoulder was sufficient to repulse the demons, but he apparently had slipped into deeper sleep; for his distress only worsened when Holmes shook him gently. He shuddered away from the contact, his face half-hidden in the pillow he was clutching.

Holmes bit his lip in consternated sadness; for it was not _fair_ for one man to be haunted so, and it was equally unfair for another to be so incapable of comforting.

"Watson," he said softly. "Watson…wake up." He received only a shivering sigh, and moved his hand to rest solidly upon his friend's back. "Come on, old chap…do wake up now."

With a startled gasp he did abruptly, stiffening under Holmes's grip and struggling for a controlled breath.

"Easy, Watson," he hasted to calm, reaching for and securing the icy hand that was not clenching the pillow. "It's all right…you're home now, old fellow."

He had deduced correctly the source of the dream, then, for his words had an immediate calming effect; Watson shivered and then slowly went limp, his face white enough to blend with the bedclothes.


	43. Haunt

"You all right, old chap?" Holmes's voice…somehow he had heard his desperate, dreaming plea for help.

More likely he'd been loud in his distress. He nodded, half-hidden into the pillow. "I woke you, didn't I?"

The hand tightened comfortingly around his still-shaking fingers, and he clung to it as a life-line until the memories faded.

"No…oh no, my dear fellow, not at all." He wasn't fibbing; he could tell when Holmes was fibbing. His voice didn't quiver like that when he was fibbing. "I heard you…calling for me."

Holmes was sitting on his bed…could see the lingering terror he knew wasn't hidden in his face. Reading his expression, Holmes spoke softly, laying his other hand over his friend's. "My dear chap, after everything that happened, there is no shame in being afraid."

He was unconvinced, and probably looked it; for Holmes's hands clenched suddenly, his face drawn and hollow as he gave a small shiver.

"Do you have any idea how often I was frightened this last week?" Holmes whispered. "It is far less shameful for a man to be afraid of his sleeping imagination, than afraid that his folly may have cost him the dearest thing in all the world…"

He wasn't fibbing – when Holmes was fibbing his steel eyes didn't glint with moisture, and his voice certainly didn't break.


	44. Listen

"You know we've hardly had a chance to talk," he ventured softly, stifling another cough.

They had remained in that position for several minutes, Holmes with his thin fingers absently wrapped around his own, face drawn and pensive; and he closing his eyes and allowing the warmth of present security to drive back the past spectres.

Finally he had felt Holmes shudder, his grip tightening before releasing him, and gently replace his arm under the blanket as the cold rushed in. Holmes pulled the blankets up around him, his hand lingering for the ghost of an instant upon his shoulder, and then he heard the creaking of a chair being sat in close by his head.

For a few more minutes, only the deafening thunder filled the room. Just to make sure Holmes was still there, he opened his eyes to check; he was, sitting in the chair with his elbows on his knees and his chin upon his clasped hands, just watching him.

Holmes blinked in surprise. "I thought you had dropped back off, my dear fellow."

"'M not sleepy yet," he muttered. Repressing a contradictory yawn and crooking an arm behind his head, he offered a faint smile to the obviously disturbed detective. "You look as if you could use a listening ear in addition to a sounding board."


	45. Love

They sat there, just like that (well, not _just_ like that, since at some point Holmes squirmed into a more comfortable position with his feet atop the bed), for what seemed like hours, and probably was.

What had started as a half-hesitant exchange of information (and apologies) turned into some heavy soul-searching, the likes of which they had never been forced to address in the six years of their awkwardly-begun friendship.

So distraught was Holmes, that he did not even care that his voice trembled as he told Watson of the constable's rash declaration about a body, of the numbing terror that had punctured his heart with ice when they'd heard gunfire from the warehouse. And in return for that confidence, his friend admitted freely to giving up hope of rescue near the end, and of awakening that first morning and utterly panicking upon finding he'd been injured and chained up like a dog.

But even awkward reassurances and a firm sustaining hand could do much to comfort; and so Mrs. Hudson discovered next morning after bringing up a coffee-tray.

If they could both be sleeping quietly after all that had happened, with a faint smile relaxing the Doctor's face and his hand gripped reassuringly in Mr. Holmes's…_yes, they would be fine_, she mused with maternal fondness, _and_ always _would be_.


End file.
